


Good Guys Don't Wear White

by gloss



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Punk RPF
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M, Morse Code, punk as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-20
Updated: 2007-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All the messed up chicks, all the changing times/White filth and easy living/You can't come close to the love that I've given."<br/>Warnings: Underage and cross-generational content. Some RPF towards the end which, of course, makes absolutely no claim to fact about real people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Guys Don't Wear White

**Author's Note:**

> Title & summary from Minor Threat, "Good Guys (Don't Wear White)". This fic was variously inspired, encouraged, and abetted by Zee, Kate, and Jube. It's for all of them - Zee, particularly, gave me the key fellatio challenge - but especially and overwhelmingly for Jube. Happy birthday, dearheart, with much, much love and admiration and squishy robinness. **"Robins Against Fascism"** was, of course, hers. I simply pay homage. G. beta'd and offered Very Attractive Rewards for completion.

His life fucking *sucks*.

Jason tugs at his collar for the seventeenth time in three minutes. When Bruce frowns at him, he stops, leaving his finger hooked into the cloth. "What? I hate these things."

"You'll survive," Bruce says, and hands their overcoats to the porter.

"Probably not," Jason mutters. When Bruce's back is turned, he tugs one more time. Sometimes, he's half-convinced that Alfred hates him. That has to be the reason why this fucking tie is so fucking *tight*.

"Jay," Bruce says lowly, without even moving.

"I'm not." He hides his hand behind his back, then sticks it into his pocket.

"Good, then." Bruce steps aside as they reach the wide arch that leads into the club's dining room. "After you."

Jason eyes him. Bruce is -- really tall, and he looks totally different in his suit. Slicked-back hair and empty in his face, this weird polite *smirk* on his lips. "What?"

"After," Bruce says and makes this gay little flourish with his hand, "you."

"I'm not your *date*," Jason says under his breath as he steps into the dining room.

Bruce puts his hand on Jason's shoulder and squeezes briefly. "Of course you're not."

Which is a total and complete lie. The Gotham Boys' Club fundraising dinner and silent auction is filled with old white pricks and a couple corpse-thin wives. A lot of the men seem, though, to have left their wives at home in favor of bringing their sons.

Jason hates the little pricks even more. Right off the bat, they're just *obviously* full of shit, standing in little packs talking about lacrosse and Exeter and Yale early admissions and the tits on the girls from Putney until Jay's ready to puke.

One squirrelly little guy, in a suit as dark and sharp as *Bruce's*, keeps looking over at them. Jason crosses his eyes at him, even flips him -- discreetly -- off, but the kid won't go away. It's like he's fucking *studying* them, or just Bruce, and it's making Jason want to start tossing plates, just to hear 'em break.

Bruce doesn't notice. Or, since he's motherfucking *Batman*, he probably does notice, but gives no sign. He just stands there, doing his lockjaw drawl with a whole succession of pricks, a goddamn *Shirley Temple* in one hand while the other rests firmly on Jason's back.

Jason's got his own Shirley Temple. It tastes like cough syrup. And that creepy kid's still *watching*, and his feet hurt in these stupid leather shoes, and he can't *move*, because Bruce is all, "Stuyvesant, lovely to see you, my ward, Jason Todd, how *do* you do?"

Bruce doesn't touch Jason much. Not when they're not out in public, or "society", or whatever the fuck this is. Not when Jason just gets to be himself. Not in the Cave, not in the manor.

Not unless there's a *need*.

So tonight, with Bruce's hand *firmly* on his back, his neck, his shoulder, Jason feels like a poodle or one of those tiny dogs that sit in ladies' purses.

He grits his teeth and rolls his shoulder.

Bruce just squeezes back, a little harder than last time. "...so when she *stepped* on the ball, and I said to myself, Bruce, this woman is..."

Stuyvesant or De Pew or whoever the hell he is laughs like a donkey. The glass slips in Jason's hand and he puts it down on the nearest surface. If he doesn't, he's going to squeeze it until it cracks.

Bruce's index finger runs up the nape of Jason's neck. Almost absently. Not all the way.

The tingle spreads over Jason's scalp like a paint spill. He's not a fucking toy.

"I'm going for a walk," Jason announces, cutting off Mr. Van Der Zee.

Bruce smiles, all perfect teeth and invisible eyes. "Dinner's almost served."

"I'll be back."

"Why, he almost makes that sound like a threat," White Man #56 says as Jason moves off.

Maybe he *is* learning discipline and self-control and all that other bullshit - Jason *doesn't* flip the guy off, just keeps moving.

Once he hits the hall, he can run. Loosen the tie, try to shake the gel - "pomade, Master Jason, which is a different concoction entirely" - out of his hair, and before he knows it, he's climbing through an unlocked window and swinging onto the fire escape.

He shimmies into a third-floor window and lands in a room where everything is covered with dustcloths. It's just like the manor, where there are entire floors with nothing but dustcloths and rugs that his feet sink into like wet sand.

Rich people keep a lot of shit they don't need.

Not that Jay's taking anything, not tonight. It's just good to be *away*. To creep down this hallway on his hands, flip around the corner, and land in a crouch.

Right in front of the creepy kid from the party.

"Fuck!" Jason rises too fast and gets a good headswim. His hand flails out and grabs the corner. "Hell are you doing?"

The kid actually looks a little scared - green-pale and opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

Jason leans in. "Are you *following* me?"

It'd be just like these people, keeping tabs on the street rat. Just in case, or some bullshit like that.

"No!" The kid looks around, probably for his daddy. "No, I --"

"'cause I saw you *watching* me." Jason grabs the kid's lapel and grins when it creases in his hand.

"I wasn't." He looks down at Jason's hand, and it's like he's drawing in on himself, eyes cutting right, and - *please*. Jason's dealt with more than enough perps to know this kid's guilty. Hell, he knew how to read people a long time before he ever put on the cape and short-shorts.

"You so were."

The kid blinks. "Are you...? What're you going to do?"

His voice is *cracking*, and he's trying to sound like some tough guy. Jason has to laugh. "What, you think I'm going to *fight* you?"

"No! You're Ruh--you're a lot bigger." His voice isn't quite shaking, but it's close. Then it drops. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Jason rolls the fine fabric in his hand. "What've you got to be sorry for?"

Eddie Munster or whoever he is licks his lips. "I -- no. I interrupted you?" His eyes are *huge*, and they're not darting any more.

Jason should feel bad, but the kid's scared and fighting it, and that's got to count for something. He can't help pushing it, just a little more. "That all?"

"I --." His little Adam's apple bobs in his scrawny throat. "Yes."

Laughing, shaking his head, Jason lets go and steps back. Fucking *Bruce* and this fucking party full of fucking *freaks*.

In the closest room, he turns a series of cartwheels until he reaches the window, then hitches himself up onto the sill. Fishing his crumpled pack of Luckies from his inside breast pocket, he tilts his head. "What's your name, squirt?"

"What're you doing?" Squirt's following him inside, but warily, casting glances over his shoulder with every step.

"What's it look like?" Jason waves the cigarette. "And answer the fucking question."

When Jason curses, the kid almost fucking *winces*. It's a lot like Bruce, actually, right there. As long as the wince isn't followed by a widening, *flaring*, in his eyes, like Bruce's, then - well. Jason won't worry. Much.

"Tim?" the kid says.

Jason snorts as he strikes the kitchen matches he lifted from Alfred on his sole, then lights his smoke. "What, you're not sure?"

"Tim." He nods and swallows, and finally closes the gap between them. "It's Tim."

Jason kicks Tim in the shin, then hauls him over until he lands next to him on the sill. "Well, Timmy."

"Tim."

"Who's bigger, huh?" Jason holds the first drag in his lungs, then lets it out in a long, happy stream. "Fuck, that's good."

"You shouldn't smoke," Timmy says. "And you are."

Jason knocks his head against the window. "I shouldn't, but I do. And it's fucking *good*."

The light from the cigarette's cherry-tip makes Timmy's face look even skinnier, almost *haunted*, as he frowns. "It makes you taste like an ashtray."

Jason taps the ash onto the carpet and rolls his head over until he's staring at Timmy, just four inches away. "Does it?"

Timmy's jaw tightens and it's not just the cherry that's glowing red. He's fucking *blushing*. "Yes. A-a-ashtray."

Stuttering, too.

"Huh." Jason drops the smoke and crushes it under his shoe. "You sure about that?"

Timmy's scrawny as anything and creepy as hell, but he's trying, and that's something. He nods slowly. "Yes. Sure --"

He doesn't get the rest out, because Jason's grinning and grabbing his lapel again, yanking him so fast that Timmy squeaks and bangs his forehead against Jason's nose.

"Make sure," Jason says hoarsely and bites Timmy's cheek. Hot: he *is* blushing. He smears his mouth down and over, and Timmy squeaks again, his teeth clicking as he clamps his mouth shut, as Jason kisses him, *hard*.

Jason's not sure what he's doing. He just knows that the kid is twisting, trying to get away, that his lips are soft as *anything*, better than any silk, and then his teeth are sharp and his tongue is too as Jason grabs his jaw and holds him still. Kisses *inside* and the kid gulps around him.

"*Fuck*," Jason breathes against Timmy's nose and cheek, and kisses him again.

Bruce doesn't, really, as a rule, like to kiss. And Jason says to his face that that's fine, they've got better things to do with their mouths. Sometimes, though, Bruce forgets *all* the rules, and then he'll kiss, and he won't stop, and it leaves Jason breathless and bruised and hard all over again.

This - this isn't exactly like that. Timmy's smaller than he is, and he tastes like nothing at all, like water and hot steam and nothing else, but he's clutching at Jason's arms and neck and *grabbing* hard as he presses his open mouth against Jason's.

Timmy really has no idea what the fuck he's doing, and for some reason, that feels fucking *great*.

When Jason shoves his tongue against Timmy's palate, though, the kid scares hard and tries to jump away, wiping his mouth.

Timmy's free hand bounces off Jason's thigh, against his dick, and Jason laughs again through the bright, sudden pain. "Dude, don't *run* away."

Timmy's got his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face turned away. Jason can hear his sharp little breathing from here. "I'm -. Not."

"Cool." Jason slides to his feet, throws his arm around Tim's shoulders, ignoring how he tries to hunch away, and pulls him out into the hallway. "Now. What're we gonna do?"

"I, I. Should go."

"That's one option," Jason says and jumps down the banister, dragging Timmy with him as he slides. "Got anything else?"

He hits the second floor a second before Timmy, and hears women laughing, close by but out of sight.

"Sshhh!" He pulls Timmy into the nearest room - a bathroom, it turns out, stinky with flowery perfume, and shoves him into a stall.

Timmy hunches on the back of the toilet while Jason straddles the seat, facing him, his feet braced on the wall. The kid looks like a very small, very freaked-out crow, swallowed in his dark suit, his face pale and eyes wide and dark.

Jason kind of misses the blush before he realizes that's really fucking *queer* of himself and shakes his head.

The door whispers open, quickly followed by that special *braying* accent that all the rich bitches seem to have. "-- *his* tie? My dear, I had no idea such patterns were still manufactured!"

"Too true!" the second horse-voice titters. "But did you *see* Brucie with his latest urchin? Do you know, he broke off *three* appointments with Bettina Beaumont? Not to mention the way he spoke to Freddy Farmingdale, did you *hear*?"

"And how many is that now?" the first one asks. "Urchins, I mean, of course. Two? Three?"

"Who knows? They're all just *dear*, aren't they, though? Such pretty little things, so *sad*, and..."

Jason sits there, frozen, not looking anywhere in particular. Right at Timmy's ankle, actually, if you *must* know, the sharp little bone beneath dark charcoal stripes.

"Jay?" the kid whispers.

"Fuck. Off," Jason mutters under his breath. The rich bitches have moved on to gossiping about their daughter's roommates at Miss Porter's. How girls today just have no morals, it's a *shock* and a real shame, they might as well be common *whores*.

"Jay," Timmy whispers more urgently. He touches Jason's shoulder and it occurs to Jason, way too late, that he never told the little stalker his name.

It doesn't matter. Not now, probably never did. He's clenching his hands so tightly they're starting to go a little numb. Not numb enough, though, not nearly enough, and he'd really like to punch something. Right fucking *now*.

Soon enough, the dried-up old chicks leave, and Jason swings first one foot, then the other, down to the floor.

"Jay --"

They're out in the hall now.

"The *fuck* do you want?" He hauls back his right hand, twisting at the waist and dropping his shoulder, ready to smack the ever-loving *shit* out of the little weasel, but Timmy lifts up his chin and won't break his stare. "What?"

"They're serving dinner --" Timmy points past them, down the big central staircase.

Waiters are milling around the entrance to the dining room.

"*Shit*." Jason scrubs his hair back into place, then again, and bounces on his toes. "*Shit* fuck motherfucking monkey's balls."

Timmy chokes on a giggle.

"What are you two doing here?" It's the second voice, which belongs to an old crone in pink taffeta.

Jason grins up at her, the most shit-eating expression he can manage, as he loops his arm through Timmy's. "Timmy had to go, ma'am, and you know how little kids are. Can't hold it!"

Timmy elbows him, then smiles angelically at her. "We were just going back."

"See that you do, boys," she says, turning away already; most old people never even look you in the eye if they can help it. "See that you do."

At the foot of the staircase, outside the dining-room door, Jason lets Tim go and rubs at the back of his neck. "Fuck am I going to do?"

Timmy's got his arms crossed again. "I don't know. Maybe knock?"

His voice is all flat and snarky, not that Jason can put his finger on *where*. So he just bangs his shoulder off Tim's and rocks back on his heels. He tries the door again. "How'm I getting *in*, is the question. Asshole."

At the curse, Tim winces again. There's something in the expression that makes spit rush into Jason's mouth, something that makes his palms itch for Bruce, for *touch*.

So he's distracted, which is the only reason he can figure how he lets Timmy convince him to wait around the corner, then *crawl* onto the bottom of the next cart that passes.

And it's the cheese course, which means he stops at *every* *fucking* *table*, curled up over his boner and cursing the little freak kid for ever having opened his mouth.

Finally, he hears Bruce's perfect drawl asking about some piece of cheese that probably stinks like a gym bag - "and that would be Blah de Blah-Blah, goats tended by blind nuns, the cheeses washed by reformed courtesans as part of their redemption?" - and grabs his chance. He slides off the cart, rocking it only a little, and scrambles on hands and knees under the tablecloth.

Jason tugs at his dick through his pants and hangs his head, catching his breath and letting his eyes adjust. The tablecloth's some kind of heavy fabric, like curtains, and it brushes the floor. He's totally safe under here, and after a moment or two, he finds Bruce's legs.

The guy's so big that his ankles are like tree branches. Jason slips two fingers under Bruce's pants-cuff and taps out a greeting in Morse code: Hi. It's Jay.

Bruce doesn't move for a while. Then his left hand appears under the table cloth, fingers grazing Jason's forehead. Where have you been?

Jason bites his lip when Bruce runs his knuckles down his cheek and under his jaw. Around, he taps. Figure I didn't miss anything.

Bruce shifts in his seat, bringing his palm flat against Jay's cheek, cupping it for a long moment. Finally, his fingers start to move and Jason has to concentrate really hard to figure out what he's saying. Nothing at all. Nothing.

The hair on Bruce's legs is long, but fine, and Jason pets the curve of his calf muscle before tapping back, Glad to see me?

A pause, then, very slowly: Always.

God, Bruce is a *freak*. His thumb brushes over Jason's bottom lip, and it could be accidental, except - Jason's learned that hardly *anything* is ever accidental with this guy.

Under here, Jason's sight is reduced to blocky shapes - Bruce's legs, the drape of the tablecloth - and Jason relies instead on touch - the architectural strength of Bruce's ankle, the texture of his pants and nap of his hair.

When Jason shifts forward, so he's kneeling, his dick gets caught in his briefs a little painfully, a lot *thrillingly*. Bruce tugs lightly on a lock of Jason's hair. Will you be joining us?

Maybe, Jason taps back. When his free hand runs up Bruce's other leg, two things happen: Bruce twists the lock of hair around his fingers and shifts again, spreading his legs. And even though it's dark down here, Bruce's pants blurring into the shadows, Jason knows exactly where he's going.

Stop. Bruce's thumb taps *hard* against Jason's hairline.

No. Because he's bored, because this party is chockful of *assholes*, because he's sprouting a hard-on like marble. Because it's Bruce, and it's fun to push Bruce, fun to make a point when, for once, Bruce can't do a fucking thing to stop him.

Because he's not Bruce's fucking *date*.

He's better.

So he's got both his hands on the inside of Bruce's thighs now, spreading him a little further, as he ducks his head and rubs his cheek against - oh, *yeah*. Against the rise of Bruce's cock, and that's the real architecture, stark and hot under the finespun wool. He scrapes down the zipper and exhales into the gap. Bruce shudders once, then go still, his thighs clenching hard under Jason's hands.

Jason works Bruce's cock out the fly and presses his free hand against the bottom of Bruce's belly. It's flat, hard, but his dick jumps in Jason's grasp.

Somewhere out in the dining room, there's the sound of a band tuning up, the screech of feedback on a microphone as the silent auction results are announced. Down here, though, Jason can only hear the beat of blood in his ears and what he imagines is running through Bruce's dick.

His mouth has been slick since he macked on Timmy, but Jason bites the inside of his cheek anyway, then yawns wide as he wraps both hands around the base of the shaft. He goes down fast, halfway, the heated weight of Bruce's cock stretching him farther open. It's always a little too much, even if Bruce controls himself like he's doing now, a little too thick and a little too hot, good like cake and a fresh smoke. Jason gulps down spit and heat and moves his tongue as fast as he can.

Bruce's thighs are closing around his head. Jason can't see *anything* now, but he's got his fist stretched around the shaft, jerking just as fast and hard as *he* likes it, the fingers of his other hand probing and prodding into the humid depths of Bruce's shorts, across his balls. His face aches with stretching, swallowing, *moving*, and he speeds it up, sucking hard.

Bruce tastes like - rich as in *flavor*, not money, and very real, all sweat and *guy*, like he's anyone else, like he wants this. He does want this; his cockhead jumps and scrapes the back of Jason's throat, makes him want to cough, and his hand's clutched in the back of Jason's hair, twisting and pulling. And when he remembers himself, he tries to ease his grip, and then Jason will nibble at the underside of the shaft, trying to suck out all the heat buried there, just under the skin, just out of reach. And when he does that, Bruce's nails dig into his scalp and press hard, and every bone in Jason's skull stands out in sharp relief.

He wants Bruce to come. And that's the weirdest part of this whole fucking *bizarre* turn his life has taken, that he's sleeping with - not just Batman, but Bruce Fucking Wayne - and it's not just good. Sex is always good, that's not it. That he likes making Bruce come, and it's not gratitude, not necessarily payback, though that's probably a part of it. He likes it just because. And he's got both hands back on Bruce's shaft, his lips locked just under the head's ridge, and he's sucking the fucking *life* out of it. Bruce tenses all over, the table shifts a little as he leans forward, and Jason opens wider, unlocking, taking the spurts as they jump and splatter.

It takes three hard rubs, after he's shoved his hand down his own pants, to come into the handkerchief - he's pretty sure that's *not* the use Alfred envisioned for it when he tucked it into Jason's breast pocket - and stop shaking.

Bruce has both hands under the table now, fingers grazing Jason's face, rubbing his lips, cupping his neck. Before he can stop himself, Jason presses a wet, sticky kiss against Bruce's palm; then he stuffs the clumped-up handkerchief into Bruce's hand.

Good? he taps out when he's finally stopped shaking.

Bruce's fingers stutter against Jason's ear for a couple moments before the touch firms up. Extraordinary. You are -

He's about to get sappy, so Jason turns his head and licks the fingertips, bites down. Coming up now.

##  *****

  
"You're restless," Bruce says lowly as the party breaks up and everyone's gathering up their coats and loot from the auction.

"Yeah," Jason replies, bouncing slowly on his toes. He's half-looking for that kid Timmy, but not having any luck. "Just -. Restless."

"The advantages of youth," Bruce says, guiding Jason out the front doors, down to the curb where Alfred's waiting in the car.

"Sucks to be old, doesn't it?" Jason dodges Bruce's jokingly threatening hand and scrambles into the back seat. "Hey, Alfredo Sauce -"

"Master Jason," Alfred says flatly. When Bruce is settled next to Jason and Alfred has returned to the driver's seat, he adds, addressing the rear-view mirror, "Your, ah, 'civvies' may be found in the bag to your right." He pauses while Jason twists around in his seat. "Your other right."

The garment bag's contents spill over his lap when Jason yanks on the zipper - his favorite jeans, the pair of Chuck's he has lovingly modified with marker and safety pins, a clean t-shirt.

"Going somewhere?" Bruce is leaning against the door, legs loosely crossed, resting his cocked head against his palm, watching as Jason wriggles out of the fucking monkey suit and pulls on *real* clothes.

"You know it," Jason says. He riffles through the compartment in which he usually dumps all his shit after school. "Man, where's my Sharpie?"

Bruce chuckles and Alfred clears his throat. "I believe, sir, that after your last, ah, 'tagging' incident that all such...artistic materials were removed."

"That's bullshit! I need -"

"Jay," Bruce says.

"*Bruce*," Jason says. "I need my *pen*."

The leather upholstery squeaks under Bruce as he leans forward to clasp Jason's shoulder. Jason shrugs him off and gets to digging in the next compartment.

Paydirt: He finds Bruce's disguise kit and extracts a thick kohl pencil. It's usually used for adding moles and scars to Matches Malone and other personae, but it'll do. Sucking in his stomach, smoothing the shirt tight over his chest, Jason squints down and scrawls over the fabric as neatly as he can.

Block letters, each as high as his hand: **R. A. F.**

"How's it look?" He sits up and thrusts his chest out at Bruce.

"Why the sudden interest in the Royal Air Force?" Bruce's eyes are smiling, crinkling at the corners, as one finger traces over the letters.

Jason rolls his eyes. "Robins Against Fascism. *Duh*."

Bruce's mouth twitches, but he manages not to say anything else about that. "Why not just buy a shirt at the concert?"

He's explained DIYing about a *gajillion* times to Bruce, and he's way too restless right now to try again, so he just shakes his head. "Fuck it, never mind."

"All right," Bruce says and looks out the window, pressing his lips together.

The car slows down just outside the old burlesque theater that's been hosting music gigs for the last couple years. Jason bangs the divider, just beside Alfred's left ear.

"Not here! Jesus, that's the last thing I need, getting out of -"

"Out of what?" Bruce asks mildly. Jason snorts; Bruce tries (sometimes), but he's never going to get it, not really.

"I *do* apologize, sir," Alfred murmurs and pulls the car around the corner.

"You coming?" Jason demands when he's sliding out the door.

Bruce's eyebrows go up, his fingers spreading open on the seat where Jason had been. Finally, he just shakes his head.

"Your funeral." Jason slams the door and runs down the block, around the corner to the line outside.

##  *****

  
This is way more like it: the first Fugazi concert in Gotham, sold out, packed to the filthy rafters. Jason spends three hours *moving* in the din, banging against other sweaty bodies, the music walloping right the fuck *through* his rib cage, his kneecaps, shoving him into this dark, smoky mass that's got a life of its own.

He caught Minor Threat just once, when he was just a kid, and back then he didn't even have the two bucks to get in, so he climbed onto the roof of the Gotham Cinedrome and pressed his ear to the gravel.

Tonight, his restlessness is getting matched, beaten, *re*-fucking-warded, and Jason can't breathe, can barely *see*, and it all feels so fucking right.

He's glad, he supposes, that Bruce turned down his invitation; even in the best disguise, Bruce would never fit here, never know how to just dive into the crowd and carom around, jog with flailing arms in the circle pit, scream with everyone else.

A girl goes down, and Ian *stops* the song and calls for quiet. Jason's closest, other than a couple idiots wavering on their feet, so he helps her to the side and gets her a cup of ice.

He's about to share his last smoke with her when the band rips into "Straight Edge"; he tucks the pack quickly into his back pocket. It's not like the band can see him from the stage, but he'd still like to be careful.

Morons are hooting like gorillas and tossing their beers at Ian and the bassist. Jason wipes his face on his sleeve and turns back to the girl - a cutie in red and black - only to see her back in the circle, arms over her head, as some guy carries her.

Ian's admonishing the crowd from the stage while the drummer goes *nuts* on a beat; Ian's voice is hoarse as chopped ice and wet gravel, his shirt plastered to his pecs and belly like he'd need six good meals before he started to fill up, and it's fucking *awesome*.

Jason tips back his head, closes his eyes, lets it all sink in. This is almost as good as sex.

Almost.

And like sex, it's over way too soon. Soon, he's stumbling out into the street in the middle of the crowd, taking elbows in the chin and knees to the thigh. Some shaggy blonde dude offers him a baggie of shrooms for twenty bucks and Jason turns him down. He even makes note of the guy's features and the license plate on his buddy's car, just in case Bruce decides to be a hardass.

At the corner, some beefy asshole in green flannel decides to get a skinny little guy in a headlock. Asshole's face is beet-red and soaked with sweat, his pupils shrunk down to nothing, as he shouts to the skies about his woman and his wallet and losing his job.

Jason has to take him down. It's just what he *does*, it's not like he has to think about it. Circling the lumberjack, he gives him three swift, hard kidney kicks, jabs his elbow into the *other* kidney, and runs back around, wrestling the crying victim free and shoving him away.

Everything looks all right, but then the lumberjack comes back with three friends, and they've got broken-off beer bottles, and this is the kind of thing that Jay'd *really* like Batman for. He can handle it, no problem - length of pipe to two guys' knees, a couple whacks to their solar plexuses, jump off one moaning guy to get his arms around the neck of the biggest guy and plug up his fat pig nose with his thumbs.

He's bruised and raggedy when that's done, and then he has two girls teetering in fishnets to escort over to Moldoff to catch a cab.

He's a punk, and he's Robin, and even though Bruce will never quite get it, that's the *same fucking thing*. You do what you have to, you take care of everyone you can, especially the oppressed (and the cute), you live as clean as you can, you move as fast as you can.

Still, Jason's kind of cold and pretty achey by the time he gets back to the theater; someone's supposed to pick him up, and though it'd *rock* if it turned out to be Dick on his bike, with Jason's luck, it'll be Alfred in the fucking Bentley or something.

Besides, he hasn't seen Dick for a while, not since the first time with the Big Freeze-Out conversation and that stupid fucking gauntlet.

*Anyway*. He's fucking freezing now, and he's hungry, too, and he's *this* close to going MacGyver and rigging up his very own Bat-signal out of this Schlitz can and his Bic lighter.

Which is when he hears more fucking drunken hooting, and a hoarse voice yelling back at them. Curious, Jason sidles around the side of the theater.

In the narrow alley, there's a beat-up van getting loaded with amps and instruments. Or, it *was* getting loaded, until a bunch of suburban poseurs decided to stop by and harass the band.

The lead asshole's got his fist in Ian's shirt, yelling at him to go back to D.C. "Catch AIDS with all the other punk faggots!"

His friends are shoving each other, laughing and kicking at someone on the ground.

There's way too many of them for Jason to take. He could run all the way back to Moldoff and hope there's a working pay phone. But that's too far, and not remotely likely anyway.

From the back of the alley, there's someone moving in to the midst of the fight. "Is there a problem?"

Recognizing Bruce's street voice, Jason squints, but still doesn't see the cowl and cape. Just a tall, handsome guy with a knit cap on and an army-surplus jacket on his back.

Lead asshole sputters something about AIDS and mohicans and -. Something, Jason doesn't want to listen, can't listen, not with the rage bubbling up his spine and cresting over his face.

"Just some good old homophobia, anti-Semitism, and -" Ian ducks out of the asshole's grasp and moves out of reach, wincing when his friends call him a series of names. "Oh, xenophobia, too. Great."

"Nice little trifecta," ordinary-Bruce replies, nodding, as he slings his arm around Ian's wide, bony shoulders. Their heads tip together, like they *know* each other. Jason moves closer, keeping to grimy wall and the shadows, watching.

It's weird. Everything's fucking weird with Bruce, the man is weird down to his *marrow*, but this is a new kind of weird.

Bruce is yanking the cap off his hair and wrapping his arms around *Ian 'God' MacKaye*. And Ian's kissing him back, one hand on Bruce's ass, the other around his neck.

The homophobes are snickering, shifting from foot to foot, muttering to themselves.

And then - then Bruce does what he does better than (just about) anything else. He gets Ian behind him, kicks out his left foot, and chops the lead asshole in the *throat*. The buddies start backing up; when Bruce pauses, standing straight as a monument, his mouth curling like a feral cat's, the buddies break and run, tossing jeers over their shoulders that fade as soon as they hit the air.

Jason walks backward, checking over his shoulder, until he's sure that they're gone and staying gone. When he checks the van again, Bruce has his hands on Ian again, backing him up against the tailgate, thigh between Ian's legs.

And it looks *hot* and right and the dim light from the van is all there is to highlight their outlines, the round bald curve of Ian's head and the long, graceful *bend* of Bruce's torso.

Jason shoves his hands into his pockets and squares his stance.

The first kiss was a performance. This one is - this isn't public. This is the kind of kiss that happens when you can't help yourself, when the person under your hands is vibrating for it, buzzing for *you*, and you have to taste and press and fucking *push* or you'll die.

His face is still hot, but Jason's back is crawling with cold sweat, and he's starting to sprout a chubby, and, *fuck*. Bruce can do whatever he wants, and usually, often, all the fucking time, does, so why the *hell* does this feel like getting socked in the gut and puked on all at once?

Bruce's big hand is on the side of Ian's face, fingers curving around the back of his skull, and they're *moving* in - some kind of pattern.

Jason swallows, squints, and takes two quiet steps forward. Bruce is *signing*. And it has to be to him, to Jason, because there's no one else here.

Is this all right? Bruce signs, then tips Ian's head back and sucks on his throat.

Jason's hand is on his own throat before he can stop it. Bruce's eyes are on him - yards away, and Jason can almost *feel* them - so he nods. Adds an afterthought, Sure.

"Ahh," Bruce says suddenly, letting Ian go and grinning more broadly than Jason's ever seen. "There's the kid. Jay, where've you *been*?"

"Uh," Jason says. It always takes him a little longer than feels comfortable to get the hang of playacting. "Sorry. Went for a soda."

Ian's sitting on the tail-gate, hands between his legs, strumming something against the air. "You're the kid who helped that girl..."

Jason nods. "Yeah." He turns to Bruce and hipchecks him. "Uncle Bruce, you ready to go?"

"We-ell," Bruce drawls, and the accent doesn't quite fit with the army coat - not to mention the whole making out with Ian motherfucking MacKaye \- but he makes it work anyway. He clasps Ian's hand. "Nice to, ah. Meet you. Sorry to run, but you know how boys can be."

Jason's back to bouncing on his toes while Ian just *holds on* to Bruce's hand. "Usually hate violence, y'know? But you really did me a solid, thanks."

Bruce has his arm around Jason, the other outstretched toward Ian. "My pleasure, all mine."

He's *flirting*; they're *both* flirting. Jason rolls his eyes and coughs pointedly. "School night?"

"Right, right," Bruce says.

When Bruce finally gets his hand back, Jason drags him down the alley, out onto the street, into the plain sedan that, apparently, ordinary-guy Bruce would drive.

"What a fucking *night*." Jason slumps in the passenger seat while Bruce takes the wheel. He's tired, suddenly and thoroughly, and tilts across the parking brake to rest his head on Bruce's shoulder.

He gets a sappy-ass kiss to the crown of his head for that, but it's worth it, because they're headed out of the city and Bruce has his hand on Jason's thigh and God knows there have been worse nights. *Way* worse.

This one counts as a good night, actually. And it's getting better, the higher Bruce's fingers slide up Jason's legs. Better all the time.


End file.
